Industriously looking to end the single life and sharing stories along the way

Girl Fail

A wise poet once defined love as two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other. Although I don’t expect this to be a revealing statement, notice how “solitude” is the subject – the polar opposite of partnership.

This is my story of such a love.

Our first date was simple; Sunday lunch and a walk on the High Line (a public park built on an elevated freight rail line). There wasn’t a stream of silence lasting more than 30 seconds the entire time we were together. Her voice was gentle and silvery but words will always – as expected – fall short of the ineffable. Something about her timbre was soothing. Her face was also gentle, a little glossy and perfectly aged to 29. No makeup. A little fat to her cheeks with a light skinned mole on her right side. Her smokey brown eyes were comforting. Her wavy hair, stretching down a few inches past her bony shoulders, reflected a similar shade of brown. It was slightly frizzy but compellingly natural. No bangs. She made few attempts to conceal her age. Her hands were perfection; nails weren’t chewed but grown out a few millimeters past her digits, the sort of hands that give the impression of prescient dexterity despite knowing nothing of their history.

She was older, which probably meant she was taking a chance on me, a writer and a Yale graduate. I anticipated her intelligence but her wittiness and sense of humor was bewitching. (Not to sound sexist but from my experience, most women excel in replenishing flirtatious banter but not in the instigation. She was assertive and could craft a great joke.) Her analytical mind and serene temperament matched my own but luckily we were able to break that wall from time to time with an invigorating story, like the one about the Muffin Man.

No, not the one who lives on Mulberry Lane but of Samuel Bath Thomas; creator of Thomas English Muffins.

“He actually moved to the city, right around here, about a century ago,” I explained.

“There was a serial killer in Alaska named the Muffin Man. Is it bad that I thought you were talking about that?”

“Are you serious? Now I’m imagining him outlining bodies with blueberry muffins – you know, instead of a chalk outline.”

“Think of all the wasted muffins. And who wanders around with a box of muffin mix and a cleaver?” she added with a smirk. “What if Thomas English Muffins is just a cover up?!? You better call Alaskan police.”

“Holy shit, we just cracked this case wide open!”

This repartee actually continued for several minutes and became hysterically detailed but you get the drift. The first date was a success, so we made plans for a second.

Plan: An evening of bowling

Problem: She was busy every evening

Solution: Bowl at 10am on a weekday after a couple of waffles from a local diner

Unable to tell her I, too, was busy, and afraid of losing a second date, I called my boss and took off work in order to bowl on a brisk November Monday morning. Despite not having many vacation days, this made me look adventurous and a tad bit silly (hopefully).

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.” – Oscar Wilde

Breakfast was first. Conversation came easy and topics ranged from Lethal Weapon to Lady Gaga to Zen Buddhism to friendships to philosophy to roommates to writing to meditation to cooking and on and on. One topic would branch into a dozen separate tangents that we both had countless thoughts on. Never in my life have I been able to engage with someone on some many levels. She wasn’t an acquaintance I’m seeing for the second time, she was an old companion. Least, that’s what it felt like.

Do you know those self-adhering paper napkin bands that are wrapped around silverware?

Well, a playful thing I like to do is to make paper airplanes out of them to throw at my dates. What I didn’t expect was that she retaliated with a paper stealth bomber. In actuality, she made a paper frog that you could bounce but it looked more like a aircraft to me. She had an equal or greater response to everything, as if she was returning the favor in an attempt to woo me as well. Boredom was not in the cards that morning, or any morning as long as it was with her.

Bowling was second and we had the entire alley to ourselves for our first game.

Where have the women like this been all my life? You see, I’m analytical and skeptical. Which means I inexorably scrutinize the world around me. On top of this, I obsess over philosophy and the nature of the mind, which none of my friends do, or if they do, I lead the conversation. This was the first time where I was well matched, so to speak, and could freely express my ideas without being misunderstood. I was a prisoner of solitude finally being let out. It tickled my brain and electrified my body to connect in this way, if only I could contain that ecstasy in a jar for future use.

After my fifth gutter, it became clear how many ersatz relationships I’ve had; that is, cheap imitations of this. Humility in intelligence is sexy. So, if she had something to say, I wanted to listen. My tenpins game is amateurish at best but it grew worse because I kept my attention on what my next joke or thought would be. Pulling it together, I managed a spare.

“Woah!” she cheered. “These graphics are ridiculous.”

She was referring to the cheap animation on the TVs overhead. One such graphic was a silhouette of a woman (like in the opening credits of James Bond).

“Some Asian lady wearing jeans comes up when you bowl a spare!” she observed.

“It’s a silhouette. How can you TELL she’s Asian? Let along an Asian wearing jeans?”

“She’s got chopsticks in her hair!”

“Oh yeah? And what brand jeans? Levi’s?”

“Sounds about right.”

This went on for a while until we were both laughing with exhaustion. There may have been tears.

After dominating the first game, she suggested that for the next round, whoever wins the frame gets to ask the other person a question. Challenge accepted! And challenge lost.

She won all but a couple of frames and consequently, asked me quite a lot of questions. What were you like with girls in High School? What do you do for Thanksgiving? How does your brain work? How do you form thoughts? What are your guilty pleasures? How private of a person are you?

Be honest, dear reader, how many dates have you been on where someone asks how your brain works? This was by far my favorite query and I knew exactly how to answer. I connected my response to a few heroes of mine, one of them being Bertrand Russell.

“I wish I could write about philosophy the way Russell did,” she commented.

At that moment, I wanted to throw my arms around her and kiss her. Not because good ol’ Russell turns me on but because I finally met someone who feels the same way about his writing and how pragmatically beautiful it is. But alas, I had to keep my composure and not melt at her feet.

Prior to leaving the alley, we discussed what to do for our third date. Needless to say, we felt satisfied while making our way to an uptown R train.

After feeling the jolt of the train car at her stop, we kissed and she got off. Staying put, I watched her take a right out the doors and begin walking away. Just before escaping my line of vision, she turned around smiling, and waved to me. In that moment, I was the king of the world. I was so content that afternoon that I missed my stop.

That was the last time I saw her. A few hours later, we had the following conversation:

Scanning that first text, I was crassly catapulted from my “date high” and slammed into my seat. Without any gain, I felt 100 pounds heavier. Good grief. And while I will never know if she was telling her entire side of the story, I was slighted by her insinuation that I don’t fall into the “touchy-feely/artsy-fartsy” category. The irony in that sentence may very well spark an identity crisis within me.

And yet, I’m not here to object her underpinnings. All pithy rhetoric aside, everyone uses the first couple dates to suss out how romantic they are willing to get with someone. You’re unknowingly asking yourself: Is this the guy I want to give birthday blowjobs to? Is this the woman I want to thrust into on the kitchen floor or in the shower, when the roommies are gone?

To me, she was providential. To her, I was a decent guy to play tenpins with.

Here’s the best part, even her rejection text is FAR superior compared to the countless I’ve received. Most people would have remorselessly ignored my follow ups.

Any silver lining? Sure. A few months ago, I wrote a post entitled She Makes Me Wanna Die (Girl Fail #21) about an ex that – up until now – I considered to be the love of my life. For years, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find a connection truly worth keeping until now. Just knowing that I can feel this way again is a victory.

But the truth is unsettling all the while. I keep telling myself you will forget her silvery voice; her gentle face; her smokey brown eyes; her wavy hair; her perfect hands. After all, much of her body will remain undisclosed and a complete mystery to me.

If I bumped into her on the street, I’d want to tell her that she’d been on my mind every single day since we met. How every idle moment seems to effortlessly, albeit not painlessly, default to an affectionate thought of her. Of course, I could never confess this. Ironically, that’s no way to treat a lady.

{If by some astronomical chance YOU (the subject of my post; you who dreams of being James Bond) ever read this, I hope it finds you in good spirits. You never need doubt your ability to create a spark in someone else. P.S. I hope I made you smile at least once here.}

After 18 months of dating, she stayed at my apartment for a weekend to celebrate my birthday. While preparing breakfast on my “special” day, I asked her to finish cooking some bacon so that I could change. While in my room, I heard her screaming and cursing that she had burnt the meat. I assured her that I had more in my fridge and told her not to fret but this rationale had unmistakably mired me into a dispute that would last for the next 45 minutes. Close to its zenith, she emphatically started throwing clothes into her bag, threatening to leave.

Knowing that she’d have nowhere else in the city to go (she was from a different state), I stood in front of the door and begged her to stay.

“Get out of my way.”

“Look, you’re angry. That’s okay, we don’t have to talk right now but where are you going to go? Please stay.”

“Get the fuck out of my way!”

As I implored her to talk to me, she grabbed one of my steak knives from the kitchen, pushed it up against my skin and pitilessly repeated herself. I opened the door and let her walk out of my life. We spoke hours later but we never completely mended our relationship. It was the end.

Years have passed but I still see her every week in the streets of Manhattan. It’s not actually her, obviously, but it will be one feature that brings me back; a stranger’s hair, demeanor, or clothing. Sometimes this vicarious stranger – well, she makes me wanna die.

However cliché, we have all considered what it means to be in love. (Here’s my take.) Surely, the modernist poet, W.H. Auden, brooded heavily on this. His conversational poem, O Tell Me the Truth About Love, delves into many of love’s attributes but which stanza is true? If the subject of “love” in the poem could somehow be hidden from the reader, one would feel quite agitated from the hodgepodge of contradictory descriptors employed to describe the same thing. Whatever your sentiments, the answer to Auden’s questions remains a resounding “Yes.”

Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

With a cold knife pressing into my neck, about to draw blood, I couldn’t afford to deliberate what brought my adversary – and love of my life – to act so acutely. I suppose, in my girlfriend’s mind, she required the upper hand in our most recent dispute and determined, perhaps wistfully, that whatever ends justified the means. Like any story worth hearing, it’s best if I backtrack to the beginning.

After reaching the summit of a verdant mountain top, I confessed my love to the most alluring woman I have ever known. Her impractical jest, cunning flirtation, and conspicuous yearning for worlds unseen made her a perfectly dangerous confidant. The two weekend trips we took together were the best times of my life. With zero reluctance, the L word was exclaimed on our third excursion. With this, we agreed to carry out a long distance relationship since she didn’t live in NYC.

The next six months eagerly passed by as we remained content; I couldn’t say the same for the following year. Naturally, she carried burdens that were, at times, unbearable. With a past history that included sexual assault, anger issues, depression, and a suicide attempt, I felt as though I needed to be her anchor, and hold her far from those grievous times. Anyone who has ever been in a similar boat knows that this is an impossible no easy task.

“Given love, the impossible becomes what you do”

Despite all we shared in common, she was impetuous, impracticably irritable, and shortsighted. I didn’t care and loved her anyway. Aren’t you suppose to endure another person’s imperfections so that you can fully come to terms with your own? Think of it as a literal “labor of love.”

Olivia and I placidly shook our heads. Familiar with the unconventional ways of my friend Noam, I knew this conversation was going places. However, I had no way of knowing whether its destination would deter innocent-looking Olivia; someone we had just met at this party. It was obvious that my accomplice and I were fighting for Olivia’s attention by passing around funny stories all night. May the most chivalrous man win her over as well as her number.Noam eagerly continued.

“Well, you know that it’s when you realize that you’re dreaming and you can control some things? Anyway, I had one last night. I was walking around Manhattan or something when I noticed that I was just dreaming. So I started flying around, looting some stores, having fun and such.”

“Did you have heat vision too?” I quipped. #DCcomics

“So I’m flying around when I spot two women by the park. I flew over, knocked one to the ground and landed on the other. Then I just started raping her while her friend is yelling and screaming at me to stop. And I said, ‘You shut up! Just SHUT UP! Or I’ll do you too!'”

Noam gave pause to lick his lips before finishing. “Then I did. Then I raped her too.”

A fireworks display worthy of the 4th of July went off in my head. I was abject. Dammit Noam, you twisted fuck. I need to find some new friends. How the hell did I live with this guy for a whole year? Things were looking promising with Olivia until you went off the rails! Even Houdini himself couldn’t get out of this one.

Peering over at Olivia, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Overcome with majesty, she was utterly fascinated by this dream and wanted to hear more. Come to find out, she’s a spiritual dancer (whatever that means) and a self-trained reiki healer who happens to be obsessed with the meaning behind dreams. She pridefully claimed that her extensive dream journal was well over 100 pages long. Although Freud wrote in great length on the subject, making several revisions to The Interpretation of Dreams (1899), she was no Freud. Whether her reasoning was spurious or not, one thing was clear, if it felt right to her, it was right.

You can probably piece together the rest of her personality and beliefs. Here are a few things I instantly assessed without ever having to ask:

Faithful over skeptical

Reads her horoscope daily

Possibly a little solipsistic

Ambitiously gleeful and positive

Has shoddy critical thinking faculties

Thinks everything happens for a reason

She’s more emotionally “intelligent” than traditionally intelligent

Believes in tarot cards, palm reading, psychics, mystics, occultists, and the man by Penn Station that squeezes goat testicles while foretelling your future

Noam had won her heart via a dream of sexual abuse and aeronautics. How could the subject of rape, arguably the most traumatizing calamity a woman could ever experience, immersed in the context of a lucid dream not pose as a red flag? I suppose I was the odd man out on this one since she invited him to her next recital and they’re going on a date next weekend.

Don’t let my irreverent sense of humor fool you. I wasn’t putting Olivia down simply because she’s spiritual. I’m somewhat spiritual myself but it’s a pretty wide term and she embodied all the lazy stereotypes of it. Also, my friend isn’t an abuser or psycho – he has a way of thinking not just outside the box but that there may not be a box at all. Watch him marry this girl and tell her folks how they met. Surely better than a Tinder love story, wouldn’t you agree?

After dividing the furniture and pets in two, divvying up innumerable books, glassware, movies, and miscellaneous accessories, it was time to split the most unbearable thing of all; the relationship. Part spiritless commemoration; part withdrawn requiem. In the end, I subsumed the social laws of the single life.

Similar to being shot out of a bombastic cannon, the nature of being a single guy in NYC is – I have found – often precarious. And ironically, being single again is quite like getting married. Every person I spread the news to jumps with adulation and exclaims, “Congratulations!” Is there something you’re not telling me? Do I get superpowers now? How about a ribbon? A cookie? Free weed? Unsolicited sex? A hug? Nothing? Well, thought so.

No, Neo. These bullets will make you a corpse that’s also a poorly made mimicry of Christ. Get with the program.

Instead, I once again feel the torture that was, supposedly, bestowed upon Sisyphus. This king was sentenced to push an immense boulder up a lofty hill only to never settle on the top, but instead glare at the rock as it rolls back down. Although I respect what Albert Camus offers in his philosophical essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, one has to capitulate that being sentenced to anything for eternity would have its insufferable drawbacks. And so, here I am, back down at the base of an insurmountable hill staring reluctantly at the tool of my dissatisfaction as well as the unreachable summit. Sometimes I think I could use a good push.

It would be illogical to write – not to mention relive – my Girl Fails without telling you how it all started. I’m going back to high school for this story; back before I had a modus operandi, back before texting and when everyone was on AIM, back when I was battling unwarranted boners and jacking off every 15 minutes, and back when I was oblivious to anything sexually tacit (oh, the irony). Despite my mercurial nature, there was a sensational brunette in my 9th grade English class sitting beside me and I was smitten.

She was shy, allusively charming and, although the same age, blasé – as if she had been on more adventures than Amelia Earhart. But, I could make her laugh. The more I did, the more confidence I acquired and even I was surprised by this recycling of energy. Her best friend sat in front of us and pretty soon we all became close. After flirting for 2 months, I asked her out. She said yes and I got her email address and screen name (not many kids had cell phones at this point). I was ecstatic and eager to fill my friends in on my success, which is why I was surprised to find a rejection note in my locker the next day. She said her life was complicated, she liked a man in another state, and that I was a good guy. It was my first real rejection but I didn’t let it stop me from trying again.

Class was awkward for a week but we got back into our old flirtatious habits and it was business as usual till the end of the year. We chatted online all the time and sent each other funny photos via email. End of the year finals were here and with Summer break quickly approaching, I was afraid I’d be immured in the friend zone for eternity unless I asked her for her number. I couldn’t bare the thought of not seeing her for an entire season.

My plan was to ask her after our English final. Well, guess who finished the test in half the time I did and was picked up by her parents? I was abject. Alas, all hope was lost!

Not quite. Her best friend was waiting for the buses like I was. Believing it was my only shot, I asked her if she’d give me our mutual friend’s number. Noting my candor, she smiled and gave it to me.

“She likes you, you know,” she said, surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder as if her friend would suddenly appear.

I called her that evening, explained how I got her number, how I was sorry I didn’t ask her personally but with the summer here and I didn’t want to lose touch. After speaking for 5 minutes, she said she had to go and I suggested that we hang out sometime.

She sent me an email that night strongly voicing the err of my ways. What I believed to be an innocuous phone call between friends turned out to be the most menacing, disgraceful act normally executed by heartless tyrants. She went on to say that we had absolutely nothing in common, I had no idea who she is or where she’d been, and I was thoughtless (there we go with the irony again). She closed by threatening violence (she had strong, “protective male friends”) if I ever dared to call her again.

From that moment on, I began to over-think every single statement, action, or pass I made at the opposite sex. I feared that no matter how close I got to anyone, I could still be regarded as an evil threat. Every pact could be broken at any time. Every gallant gesture could be misinterpreted as malicious. Every compliment could be tainted by selfish and hidden intentions. As much as I challenged these thoughts, my subconscious seemed to open the door and graciously invite them inside to percolate.

After two years of silence, she instant messaged me randomly one day. (Interestingly enough, I was dating someone at the time.) She asked if I hated her. To be honest, I struggled to find the relevancy of her question since we remained strangers for the past few years. Then again, it was high school and we were all dramatic and peevish twerps expecting our world to end by means of a merciless calamity. Most of us aren’t like that anymore. Anyway, I replied saying that I didn’t hate her and asked if everything was okay. As if she was in a confessional, she wistfully explained what was bothering her and confided in me. She felt lonely all the time and pushed others away for no reason. She regretted the email she sent me and wished she could have taken it all back. Although it was a strange time for an apology, it was nice to hear it from her.

Regardless, the damage was done. She changed the way I pursued women all throughout college and, most likely, is the reason why I continue to contemplate my presence around women to such an unnecessary degree.

Now would you look at that? That’s some Class A psychologist babble right there, and it was all for the price of one large coffee at this quaint cafe on the corner. What a steal!

Overcome with lassitude, I sat on my couch drunk, looking down at my hand, not knowing whether or not I had broken it, and reflecting back on my hapless night. Attending local events and parties are perfect for meeting others, so when my roommate told me about a costume dance party in Manhattan, I was stoked. Granted, I’m a little uptight when I dance but with some liquid courage, I was confident I’d reach my stride. The pressure was rising and it was time I went in guns a’blazin’ (i.e. fake-it-till-I-make-it poised confidence). After all, it was going to be a night of masquerading.

I went as Popeye the Sailor Man looking for some Olive Oyl. 😉 Here’s a condensed recollection of my failed attempts.

Girl Fail #14: With one drink down, I felt loose enough to get my groove on. After joining my friends on the sizable dance floor, my roommate pointed out that this girl around us had eyed me when I walked away and had playfully bumped into me while dancing a few times. He described it as “an obvious sign.” Although I don’t know the protocol when it comes to meeting women at a dance party, it’s discernible that verbal communication has nothing to do with it.

I nonchalantly turned in her direction looking for a nonverbal cue that would evince her interest. Turning back, my thoughts kept me occupied. Should I do something to grab her attention or should I just start dancing right in front of her and hope for the best? What will her friends do if I butt in like that? My best bet is to playfully return her gestures, I think. Popeye’s virility was now being undermined by my convoluted thought process. Our shoulders brushed one another but as I went to face her, Michael Jackson earned her attention with a vivacious dance of his own as he swiftly grabbed her hand and moved to the music.

Girl Fail #15: Disappointed in my performance, strangled by unruly thoughts, I sought after another drink. Luckily, the bar was outside the dance room – making it possible to have an audible conversation. I was just lacking the caprice of a boisterous lover, so I promised myself I’d strike up a conversation with the next person who caught my eye.

Catching my eye, there was a woman, not very dressed up, sitting alone at the bar. After ordering my drink, I asked her about her costume. Hearing my voice, she looked up with a deadpan countenance. I repeated my question in case she had trouble understanding me but she was fixated on her inscrutable expression. Unsure of what I did wrong, she interrupted me as I began to speak to confess (in broken English), “I no understand.” Point taken: Hit on those who speak the language. Time to follow the hedonistic credo of “party on.”

Girl Fail #16: Fast-forward a few drinks later, I returned back to the revelry to test my luck again. With my drink resting on the stage, I began dancing with an attractive woman wearing a straight-haired grey wig that just reached her shoulders. The strange thing was that every time I looked up at her, she would turn and move away but as soon as I looked down, she would dance with me again. My moves may be insipid but at least I have rhythm and a sense of time, so I couldn’t understand her fickle routine. At one point I mirrored a wacky, spur of the moment dance movement she did to try to be flirtatious. She smiled and laughed but as soon as I looked up, she turned away and started dancing with her friends. What’s dancing if you can’t look at the person you’re dancing with?

Thinking I got rejected, my roommate assured me that she’s just being playful and I should say “Hi.” It was worth a shot but her playing-hard-to-get game was bloody obnoxious. The next time we danced, I peered up and said “Hi.” She turned her head away and kept dancing. I don’t go out like this often, so maybe this has become the norm – the closer you get to someone, the farther they become. Or maybe she abhors Popeye.

Girl Fail #17: While getting another 12oz dose of liquified therapy, my friend and I passed by a group of women. One of them placed a toy spider on my friend’s shoulder and shrieked, “Ah! What’s that on you?” Sharing a fleeting laugh, I tried to start a conversation with them but it went nowhere. It was obvious they were only interested in my friend, who’s girlfriend was waiting for him on the dance floor. It was another dead end.

Girl Fail #18: My impeccable streak of failures at the dance party along with enough drinks to sedate a baby rhino was starting to get to me. I departed from my group and ventured to an unknown bar several blocks away. Like I said before, the pressure was rising and my night couldn’t be over yet; not while I still had energy, albeit it was scanty.

Did you catch my mistake? I’ll give you a hint: spinach.

Greeted with friendly hilarity by a group of bar-hopping night crawlers immediately put me in a better mood. To my amusement, cheeky jokes about Olive Oyl went over well with this 2am crowd, especially the cute woman drinking whiskey sour. I flirted with her until she started making out with another guy. Moving on.

Girl Fail #19: Seeing 10 people on the floor on all fours at the bar won my curiosity, so I decided to join them. The leader of the party was a slim brunette wearing a red top who had lost a $300 pear earring her father had given her.

A damsel in distress in need of help.

She was Olive Oyl and I was Popeye the Sailor Man on another adventure. Accepting the challenge, I rolled up my sleeves, ingested an unpalatable lump of canned spinach (or was it beer?), and began a tedious search for the lost artifact.

Less than 10 minutes later, I found it. Her face lit up when she saw the lustrous gem. She thanked me repeatedly and left immediately afterwards.

Closing time. An hour on the train alone inside one’s head after a calamitous night casts an unforgiving shadow that tactfully follows one’s movements. Justified or not, I was angry. It wasn’t just my costume that made me feel isolated. I was beginning to believe that although my circumstances could be much worse, I lacked the ability to improve them. I clenched my fist till my knuckles turned white and slammed them into my living room table. The impact ricocheted through my forearm as I collapsed listlessly on my couch. Cursing my capricious behavior didn’t abate the swelling pain in my hand.

Isn’t it incredible how one never needs motivation to make matters worse but instead seemingly requires exigent motivation to better oneself? I may be losing my vigilance.